“Saturday 19th.  Twenty butchers’ wives in Leadenhall and Newgate markets overtaken with sherry and sugar by eight in the morning.  Shop-keepers walk out at nine to count the trees in Moorfields, and avoid duns.  People’s houses cleansed in the afternoon, but their consciences we don’t know when.  Evening pretty sober.

“Sunday.  Beggars take up their posts in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and other places by seven, that they may be able to praise God in capon and March beer at night.  Great jingling of bells all over the city from eight to nine.  Parish clerks liquor their throats plentifully at eight, and chaunt out Hopkins most melodiously about ten.  Sextons, men of great authority most part of the day, whip dogs out of the church for being obstreperous.  Great thumping and dusting of the cushion at Salter’s Hall about eleven; one would almost think the man was in earnest he lays so furiously about him.  A most refreshing smell of garlic in Spittlefield’s and Soho at twelve.  Country fellows staring at the two wooden men at St. Dunstan’s from one to two, to see how notably they strike the quarters.  The great point of Predestination settled in Russell-court about three; and the people go home as wise as they came.  Afternoon sleepy in most churches.  Store of handkerchiefs stolen at St. Paul’s.  Night, not so sober as might be wished....”

The following are some of the best specimens of Brown’s poems—­squibs on the fashions and occurrences of the day—­

  “The emblem of the nation, so grave and precise,
   On the emblem of wisdom has laid an excise;
   Pray tell me, grave sparks, and your answer don’t smother,
   Why one representative taxes another? 
   The Commons on salt a new impost have laid
   To tax wisdom too, they most humbly are pray’d;
   For tell me ye patrons of woollen and crape,
   Why the type should be fined and the substance escape?”

A song in ridicule of a famous musician, who was caught serenading his mistress with his bass-viol on a very frosty night:—­

Look down, fair garreteer bestow
One glance upon your swain,
Who stands below in frost and snow. 
And shaking sings in pain.

Thaw with your eyes the frozen street,
Or cool my hot desire,
I burn within, altho’ my feet
Are numbed for want of fire.
Chorus.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,
My dearest be not coy,
For if you are (zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your favour die.

The sentiment in the following is easily appreciated, but is there not also some slight essence of humour?

  ON FLOWERS IN A LADY’S BOSOM.

  Behold the promised land, where pleasures flow! 
  See how the milk-white hills do gently rise,
      And beat the silken skies! 
  Behold the valley spread with flowers below! 
  The happy flowers, how they allure my